


Homewrecking

by littlemiss_m



Series: HOME, a series [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (in the form of one forced kiss), (minor character death and suicide are same person/event), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Gen, Hospitals, Imprisonment, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Sexual Assault, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-24 21:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13819680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: Prompto knows this is the point where he's supposed to call for help. He doesn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Prompto and Noctis' second year of high school.

It's the last week of the winter break, the beginning of a new year, and Prompto is starting to realize he's in a corner. His father has been home for most of the holidays, one of the lucky winners of the vacation lottery, and their relationship has grown from strained to hostile. Prompto knows he should give someone a call, or just show up at Cor's apartment or the Amicitia manor, but he can't. He just can't. He's not ready to do what he knows he should do, and so he suffers alone – literally.

He has a split lip and a black eye. He's been using generous amounts of lip balm in a desperate attempt to be rid of the scab before school starts, but it's not helping much, especially as he keeps on reopening the wound at least once a day when he eats or speaks or yells at his father. The bruises he can deal with – makeup and clothes go a long way – but the lip is a problem. It's too obvious and Prompto knows he can't explain it away as clumsiness; the other have already gone from suspicious to outright concerned, and if they see him visibly injured, they're going to get the authorities involved. So far, they've been willing to respect him and his hang-ups, but his time is running out.

With John, his time already has _run_ out. Ever since meeting Noctis and making friends with him, Prompto has only feared one thing: John finding out. That was something the others had understood, too, Cor and Clarus remembering an ex-Crownsguard called John Argentum and agreeing that wow, yes, this _needs_ to stay a secret. They'd managed it, too, at first; but not anymore. The public knows.

There's a picture doing its rounds in every newspaper and journal in Insomnia. It was taken at the arcade and shows Prompto and Noctis, arms thrown around each other as they cheer over a new record on one of their favorite games. They're so close their faces are touching; the way Prompto remembers it, they were pretty much screaming into each other's mouths, but to the public it looks like they're kissing or at least trying to. Now everyone in Insomnia knows Prompto Argentum, the best friend of His Royal Highness Noctis Lucis Caelum. Some suggest they're lovers, others remember the attempted kidnapping from the previous spring. The Citadel pulls an emergency PR management thing and some kids from school give interviews saying they're just friends, really, super disgusting friends but friends nevertheless.

The photograph was first published six days before John's winter vacation starts. By the time he shows up in Insomnia, everything else has happened as well. Prompto opens the door to a fuming father waving a rolled-up newspaper in the air and knows he's screwed. The beating he receives is worse than the one after John found out about Prompto saving Noctis' life.

Two weeks of the three-week winter holiday have passed and Prompto doesn't know how he's going to survive the remaining days. John is still home, drunker and angrier by the day, and it's the coldest part of the year so it's not like he can try hiding in the park either. Besides, after finding out about Noctis, John has been increasinly careful about letting Prompto out of the house unsupervised, going so far as to attach a lock on the outside of Prompto's room. Things have taken a turn from bad to really fucking _scary_ , and Prompto knows he has to make the call but he can't. It's a miracle no-one has stormed the house yet, one that's mostly due to Noctis being so busy they hadn't been able to plan on meeting at all during the holidays.

Prompto doesn't know if he's thankful or not.

* * *

It's evening and John has gone out to buy more food and alcohol. Prompto, instead of packing his bag and leaving, uses the momentary calm to take a shower. He pads across the hallway to the bathroom and then back to his room, hair dripping water on his shoulders. As he dries his skin and dresses in pyjamas, he watches himself in the mirror. Sees the new bruises littering his body and the occasional scar where skin has split. John returns while he's buttoning up his shirt and Prompto dries his hair with the blowdryer to cover the sounds of him rummaging around in the kitchen.

Afterwards, he sits on his bed and continues to stare at the mirror. His hair has grown longer, almost brushing his shoulders, and a sudden realization hits. He looks like his mother. The photograph he got from Wiz is tucked in a drawer in Cor's guest room; right now, it's just about the most important thing in his life and he needs to keep it safe. Numb, Prompto tugs at the ends of his damp hair, twists them into soft curls and tucks away the stragglers. From the mirror, his mother stares back.

The moment is shattered by John slamming the door open and bursting into the room on legs too wobbly to carry his weight. He stinks of old alcohol and his eyes are bloodshot, and from the way he's trying to push a wad of cash into Prompto's hands the blond guesses he was refused service at the store, if he even got that far. Prompto tries to get up from the bed but something happens then, John stilling as he stares down at Prompto and Prompto realizing he's caged.

He tries to roll over his bed but he's too slow. John's hand grasps the front of his shirt and Prompto closes his eyes in wait of a fist aiming for his face, but instead of pain, he receives wet lips pressing against his own. His eyes flash open in shock even as John tries to pull him closer, and for the first time in his life, Prompto strikes back. The flesh of his palm stings from the first slap, but it's enough to cause John to loosen his hold, and Prompto curls his fingers into a fist and aims. He feels the bone break, hears the resounding crack. For a moment, everything is still, Prompto too shocked to move while John cradles his bleeding nose.

Their eyes catch and Prompto squeaks, scrambles away from the bed. His feet tangle and John throws him to the floor, and he turns his face just in time to see a snow-damp shoe moving towards his face. A crack, a terrible pain, and blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

Zed doesn't really mind patrolling the streets at night. He's usually assigned to the more quiet neighborhoods, where events requiring police assistance are just that: events, not everyday issues. One of his friends patrols in the Niff district and when they go out for drinks, she stares into her beer with an expression Zed doesn't want to decipher. They both became cops because they wanted to help but so many others become cops because they want to hurt, and not a lot of people trust them these days.

Zed's route covers a few parks, bridges, and an abandoned industrial building waiting for demolition. He drives past the residential areas, parks his car and steps out to peek under bridges in search of freezing homeless people even though the neighborhood is a touch too nice for anyone to be lurking in the snow. A group of teenagers are building a snow castle in a park; Zed tells them to go home and they disappear, frowning and laughing and throwing insults at him. Zed rolls his eyes and returns to his car.

The next stop is another park. There's something happening nearby, reports of shouting and fighting coming from a house, but others have already taken the call so Zed turns down the radio and grabs his mittens. There's something almost magical in walking in a dark, snow-covered park alone at night as snowflakes drift down from the sky. Whistling softly, Zed flicks on his flashlight and heads for the playground. A weary-looking man walking a dog approaches from the other direction and they nod at each other; other than them, the park appears empty. Zed shines his flashlight past the jungle gym and a half-crumbled snow castle.

The distant sound of police sirens echoes over the neighborhood and Zed frowns, about to pick up his radio when the beam of his flashlight catches the plastic slide. Horror and understanding both dawn on him when he sees the blond teenager curled into a ball under the slide, and as he strides through piles of snow, he realizes it is exactly who he thought it was, but also that the kid is only wearing pyjamas and house slippers. Cursing, he checks for a pulse – weak, but there – and calls for an ambulance.

Zed has forgotten most of the people he has met through his job, but not this one; Prompto Argentum is the one client he will remember to his dying days. A blood-covered phone rests on the ground next to Prompto's hand and Zed pockets it, grimacing. He removes his mittens to prod at a nasty gash on the boy's forehead, quickly checking him for further injuries before scooping him in his arms and rushing towards his car. If Zed is correct, Prompto is already suffering from hypothermia.

Zed spots a thick figure marching through the park but ignores it, too focused on helping the unconscious teen in his arms. The figure spots him and starts running closer; Zed grits his teeth together and eyes him carefully.

”Hey!” the man shouts. ”Leave him–”

They both step under a street lamp at the same time, and as yellow light pools around them, Zed recognizes Clarus Amicitia under the thick winter clothes. From the look of sudden recognition on the man's face, Zed assumes the other has realized that he's a police officer and not some shady character. Or at least he hopes so, because if Prompto is on good terms with Cor Leonis and prince Noctis, then he's probably on good terms with Clarus Amicitia as well, and Zed really doesn't want to get in any trouble with these sorts of people.

”Officer,” Amicitia greets him, slowing down to a brisk walk. He lookes worried when he eyes Prompto's limp form. ”He called me over.”

”I figured,” Zed grits between his teeth. His arms are starting to tire. ”I'm going to get him in my car, which is warm and dry. The ambulance should be here soon.”

Amicitia nods, but he's frowning. ”What do you mean you figured?”

They reach the car before Zed can answer. Amicitia opens the back door and Zed very carefully lays Prompto on the seats, groping for his radio while he retreats to fetch a blanket from the trunk. The call center tells him the ambulance is ten minutes away and Zed relays the information before answering the question. ”I mean, kid's friends with the prince and Marshal Leonis is his godfather, so it's not much of a stretch to assume he'd also know you, sir.”

From where he's assessing Prompto's injuries, Amicitia looks at him like they're having two different conversations. ”I'm sorry,” he says slowly while Zed wraps the blanket around Prompto's body, ”I wasn't aware you knew Prompto.”

Zed blinks at him across the back seat. ”Um,” he says. ”I took him to the station once? Marshal Leonis picked him up?”

From the look on Amicitia's face, Zed guesses they're finally on the same page. Because of the same expression, he also kind of wishes they weren't. ”And when was this?” Amicitia asks, smiling. He looks dangerous.

”Uh, just this autumn, sir,” Zed says. ”Prompto didn't get in any actual trouble, sir, I just found him here in the park in the middle of the night and–”

He realizes he's maybe talking too much. Amicitia cuts him off, though, with a wave of his hand. There's blood on his fingers. ”Oh, I know he's no troublemaker,” he says, ”it's the damn _brat_ I'm about to kill, couldn't even _tell_ me – oh, Prompto? Prompto, can you hear me?”

Amicitia cuts off so abruptly that Zed can't even focus on his threats. Sandwiched between the two of them, Prompto is beginning to stir, moaning and blinking. In the dimly lit car, Zed can see a black eye and an old bruise peeking from the collar of his pyjama shirt. ”Nngh,” the blond groans, twitching on Amicitia's lap. ”Hhn.”

Zed checks his watch. Five more minutes. Amicitia is murmuring soft words to Prompto while gently fingering his hair and Zed is hit with the realization that this is a father who has nursed children before. Prompto, for his part, is quickly returning to consciousness; he blinks a few times and as soon as he truly sees Amicitia looming above him, his entire face scrunches up. ”He-e-e,” he begins to cry, ”m-m-my dad, he, he–”

Whatever he was trying to say gets lost under loud sobs. Zed, seeing he's not really needed at the moment, closes the door and walks around the car radio in hand. While conversing with the center, he listens to Prompto's cries and the quiet hush of Amicitia's words. He ends the call and just waits, sits on the hood of his car and stares into the darkness. A moment later, the ambulance arrives with flashing lights and while the crew works to get Prompto into the van, Zed pulls Amicitia aside. He remembers Prompto's phone in his pocket and hands it over.

”I talked with the center,” he begins, eyeing the larger man. ”Not that long ago, a few of Prompto's neighbors called the police. When the officers got there, Prompto was already gone, but they found Mr. Argentum trying to – well, he was going to commit suicide, and wouldn't let himself be stopped. He shot himself in the head.”

Amicitia closes his eyes, sighs, draws in a deep breath. When he opens his eyes, he glances at the ambulance, where Prompto's sobs have quieted to the occasional sniffle. ”Well,” he says, pausing; ”well, I suppose that's that then. Not a terrible shame, though I am afraid Prompto won't like the news one bit even after all that monster has done to him.”

Zed can't disagree with either statement. When the ambulance crew is ready to leave, Amicitia goes with them, leaving Zed and his car behind. He watches the ambulance disappear into the night and doubles back to the play slide. There's nothing left behind beyond droplets of blood in the disturbed snow, but Zed pulls out his camera and snaps photographs of the scene. Then he returns to his car, folds the blanket back to the trunk and drives away. He has a long report to write.


	3. Chapter 3

Hypothermia, concussion, blood loss. Two cracked ribs and a badly twisted ankle. One bleeding head wound, a few smaller scrapes. Bruising and swelling everywhere. Possible internal damage.

Clarus sighes when the nurse finishes rattling off Prompto's injuries. He has no broken bones, so other than the first three issues, everything else can be healed with potions; blankets will help with the hypothermia while an IV drips new blood into his veins. The concussion is a problem, one with possible repercussions, but Clarus knows better than to fixate on worrying; if he didn't, his work would have driven him to the grave by now.

They've been at the hospital for an hour now, Prompto drifting in and out of consciousness while a doctor works to put his body together. All in all, it's not a terribly worrisome situation, though Clarus is sure that the past events will leave deep scars in Prompto's mind. He doesn't know the details of what happened between Prompto and John but the police he called described the scene as a mess of broken furniture and bloodied floorboards, nevermind the dead body already taken to a morgue.

The whole thing is one massive mess and the knowledge that Prompto will never have to return to his father isn't enough to make up for it. Upon arriving at the hospital, Clarus had called Cor to let him know what had transpired, but also to tell him to stay home for now. A few texts to Reggie took care of work, yet the hardest part is still left: telling the children.

* * *

When the same nurse from before reappears to lead Clarus to Prompto's room, he doesn't need to be told twice. Clarus follows him around a corner and through heavy glass doors, down the hallway and into a small room. The lights are set low, bright enough that the staff can work but dim enough to not disturb Prompto, who is wide-awake in his bed. When Clarus enters the room, Prompto looks up at him, startled and embarrassed and on the brink of crying.

”I'll leave you two for now,” the nurse says. He's smiling. ”Please don't hesitate to call for help if you need anything.”

Clarus waits until he's left before pulling a chair next to the hospital bed. ”Hey there, kid,” he murmurs. Prompto won't meet his eyes, but he's not trying to turn away either. ”Some rough day, huh?”

”My dad,” Prompto whispers. He doesn't say anything else.

”Yeah, kid, we know.” Clarus smiles through the sadness engulfing his heart and reaches to squeeze Prompto's fingers. ”He won't bother you again, I promise. Never again.”

It's not the right time to tell Prompto that he's an orphan, and thankfully he doesn't try to press the issue either. Other than the hum of the machines around them, the room is silent. Prompto's eyes are downcast and glum, his lips turned down into a small frown; when the tears start falling, Clarus pulls out a paper tissue and makes sure the teen sees him move.

”It's been a long day for you,” Clarus murmurs as he pats away one tear after another; ”I'd tell you to get some sleep, but you're not allowed to do that yet. Either way, morning will soon be here and with the dawn a new day will come. We'll all be there to help you through this; every moment you need us, we'll be there. You don't need to worry anymore, okay? You don't need to hurt either. It's all over, and from now things are only going to better.”

Prompto jerks his head but says nothing. While he cries, Clarus continues drying his face, eventually urging the blond to blow his nose. He turns away to discard the used tissue to a trashcan behind his back, and when he swivels the chair back around, Prompto's looking at him with wide red-rimmed eyes and such a haunted expression that Clarus' heart breaks anew.

”He saw the pictures,” the teen whispers, voice hoarse from crying. He looks at Clarus, barely blinking. ”In the news. The one from the arcade, with me and Noct.”

Clarus closes his eyes in shame. There is nothing he – or anyone else at the Citadel – could have done to stop the photograph from circulating, seeing as it was taken at a public location. He wants to say that they had all forgotten about John and his anger at the crown, but that would be a lie; they'd remembered, and they had even discussed it behind closed doors. When John returned to Insomnia, both Cor and Clarus were waiting by their phones, but no calls ever came. Prompto kept on texting the boys like usual, like planned, and their attention turned into confused waiting.

They should have acted, he knows now; the cat was already out of the bag so they should've just showed up at Prompto's house, asked to see him to make sure he was okay. They didn't. Instead they'd waited, placing the onus on a likely traumatized teenager famous for belittling his grievances.

There is their mistake: in assuming Prompto would call when needed.

”I'm so sorry,” Clarus murmurs, meaning every word. Prompto just shrugs, like all this hurt had been unavoidable.

”'It's okay,” he says. ”I knew it was coming.”

He knew, and still stayed. Clarus eyes the boy, the pink line of a potion-healed wound on his forehead, the last shadows of a bruise on his eye. There's still blood in his hair and on the collar of his shirt.

”He, um, he,” Prompto hesitates, looking at Clarus through wet eyelashes. He wants to talk, Clarus realizes suddenly, wants to do the one thing they've been trying to get him to do for over a year now.

”I'm here,” he says, smiling, and takes Prompto's hand in both of his. The teen attempts a smile and though it falls short, Clarus' heart warms up at the sight.

”Yeah,” Prompto sighs. He closes his eyes for a second and just as Clarus begins to think he's fallen asleep, he opens them again. ”He got really mad at me, about the pic and Noct. He, um, he beat me up kinda bad. Not _this_ bad, but. Bad still.”

That was two weeks ago. Clarus thinks back to something the police officers reported and tries not to grimace. ”Your neighbors called the police to your house,” he says slowly, gauging Prompto's reactions. ”The officers say there's a newly installed lock on the door to your room.”

Prompto laughs, just a little, and looks away for a second. ”Yeah. He really didn't want me hanging out with Noct,” he says bitterly. ”But, um – you said, you said the police went to my house?”

Clarus doesn't even try to decipher the inflection in Prompto's tone. ”Yes,” he agrees. ”As I said, your father will not hurt you again.”

For a long moment, Prompto just stares at him. ”He was really drunk earlier,” he says after a while. ”He came to my room – he went out to buy food and drinks but I don't think they sold him any – so he came to room and I think – I think he thought I was mom? Cause he had this look like he was really confused, and then he grabbed me and I though he was gonna hit me, but, um. He – he kissed me.”

Clarus is stunned to near speechlessness. Throughout Prompto's story, he's tried to keep his expression calm and comforting, but at the last admission his training fails him. He feels such anguish, such fear, it's near indescribable. ”Did he – he didn't–” he tries to ask, wondering if he's going to have to order a rape kit on top of everything else. Wondering if he's going to have to carry such a horror on his shoulders.

Prompto, to his relief, shakes his head so fast he grimaces. ”No!” he hurries, face contorted in pain but expression honest. ”No, no, no. He didn't. He just – it was one kiss, and then I broke his nose. I tried to run, but he got really mad and kicked me in the head, I think? I guess I, um, got out at some point but it's all kind of hazy.”

Clarus nods, remembering the phone call. ”I'm not sure if you remember, but you called me for help,” he says.

”Ooh,” Prompto breathes. ”So that's why – I was kind of confused about you showing up? Like it's – it's _nice_ , but I couldn't figure out how you knew when to come. But I guess that explains it.”

He looks so embarrassed that Clarus can't help chuckling.


	4. Chapter 4

Very early in the morning, after Prompto has been given permission to nap just a little, a nurse walks an older woman into the room. She's dressed in a pant suit, a little old but sharply ironed, and she's carrying a binder under her arm. Prompto doesn't need to see the crest on the binder to know she's a social worker.

”Must we do this now?” Clarus asks before the woman can introduce herself. The nurse hovers in the doorway, unsure if she should leave or not. ”He has barely been allowed to rest, not to mention there are certain... issues he's still unaware of.”

Prompto glances at Clarus, surprised and more than a little confused. Just as he's beginning to worry, the man gives him a small smile before turning back to the social worker. She's still standing next to the door, a tired and unamused expression on her face. ”You have just listed the reasons the police are not yet in this room,” she says, then sees Prompto's expression fall and hurries: ”a formal investigation is standard procedure, sweetheart, no need to worry.”

He still worries. He'll have to explain everything to so many people, and then – he hopes he won't be placed in the foster system, thinks of Cor's guest room and his mom's photograph and the drawing behind the dresser. Clarus is here, too, has been sitting next to bed through the entire night.

”I understand you're here to do your work, ma'am,” Clarus speaks with the firm patience Prompto has come to associate with politicians on TV screens, ”but I really think Prompto should be allowed at least some rest before we start with the legalese.”

The woman sighs. ”Yes, and because of–” she cuts herself off and eyes Prompto, not unkindly. ”Should we have this conversation elsewhere?”

Clarus stands up and gives Prompto's knee a soft pat. ”I'll be right back, kid,” he says, ”don't you worry about anything.”

Clarus and the social worker disappear into the hallway but the nurse moves in and begins fussing over him. Prompto doesn't wince when she shines a light in his eyes, though it does make him want to squeeze his eyes shut. He's able to remain still when she prods at his forehead, first gently, then with more pressure.

”Looks like you're healing up real nice!” she says brightly. ”A shower, some food, and a little sleep, and then you'll be feeling a lot better!”

Her cheery attitude is sweet, but it also distracts him from thinking about things too deeply. When Clarus and the social worker return, they both look grim. The nurse leaves and Prompto watches as Clarus returns to the seat by his bed, taking his hand and leaning in. Prompto is scared.

”There's something I haven't yet told you,” Clarus begins. ”Last night, I said that your father will never bother you again; that alone was not a lie, but I believe I led you to assume that he had been arrested by the police officers.”

Dread fills Prompto's guts. He's pretty sure he knows where this conversation is going. ”Is he–” he asks, unable to finish the sentence. Clarus nods.

”I'm sorry, Prompto, but your father is dead,” he says. The world around them collapses. Prompto looks at the social worker, whose exhausted smile has a sad edge to it, then back to Clarus, who's so upset he can barely believe his eyes. Prompto doesn't know what he himself is feeling, other than a very distant sense of everything negative.

”What happened?” he whispers. His memories of last night are really vague and blurry, but he's sure that his dad was still alive when he scrambled out of the door. Or maybe he's wrong and the reason they're bringing in the police – Clarus is speaking over his thoughts.

”John killed himself,” Clarus says. No apologies, no hemming, no lead-up. He just says it, and some part of Prompto is thankful because what else could Clarus do? ”Mrs. Cerus is here because right now, you technically have no legal guardian.”

Prompto glances at the social worker in horror, so scared he feels like he's going to vibrate out of his skin. He wants to ask about Cor, about Clarus, about Noctis and Ignis and Gladio, but before he can get a coherent word out of his mouth, Clarus continues to speak.

”I told her,” he begins, in a firm tone that's probably meant to calm Prompto down, ”that both myself and Cor will likely end up fighting over the privilege of adopting you.”

Something in Prompto's brain shortcircuits and he just shuts down. He can't, he really can't. He's fairly sure he's stopped breathing but his heart is doing the exact opposite of stopping, and everything just feels off. His vision is blurry and the large palms holding onto his shoulders feel stone-heavy, yet something about the hard weight is comforting in a really odd sort of a way. There's someone talking to him but Prompto can't hear, can only feel and even that sense is starting to disappear. A bright light flashes on above him and Prompto squeezes his eyes shut, trying to disappear into the darkness.

* * *

Some time later, when he's calmed down from his impromptu panic attack (not his first, but no-one's asked him so he hasn't told them either) they repeat the previous conversation, and this time Prompto listens. Though his chest feels tight, he's also warm inside. He still has Cor and Clarus and all his friends, and whenever he manages to forget the hospital environment and his father's death, he feels like there's actual hope for him.

At some point, Mrs. Cerus insists that Clarus give her and Prompto a moment alone. He leaves the room – just to the hallway, he reminds Prompto before closing the door, well within shouting distance if things get too much again. Prompto watches him go with a blush that's half embarrassment and half contentment. Mrs. Cerus is stern and firm, but not scary, and Prompto somehow has a feeling that it's not him the strictness is directed at. She seems okay, even though he doesn't have it in him to trust her.

”Now that he's out of the room, let me ask you again – are you okay with the plans we discussed?” she asks, binder open on her lap and pen in hand. Prompto nods; Clarus and Cor want to take care of him, and he wants to let them.

”It's fine,” he says. ”I – I want to.”

He doesn't say what it is he wants but Mrs. Cerus seems to understand either way since she just hums in agreement and scratches something on one of the papers. ”You did have an panic attack earlier,” she says, ”right after Lord Amicitia mentioned that he and Marshal Leonis are interested in becoming your guardians.”

Prompto grimaces, realizing how bad it must have looked. ”I just got – really overwhelmed,” he murmurs. ”It's not – I really like them.”

”That's understandable,” Mrs. Cerus says. ”What is it that you like about them?”

An answer bubbles at his lips but at the same time, he realizes he actually has to stop to think about the question. He's pretty sure that if he's ever going to speak honestly and without avoiding certain topics, then this has to be the time. ”I like...” Prompto begins pausing. ”Cor is – he's my godfather, yeah? I pretty much worshipped him when I was a kid, and I still think he's just about the coolest person in the world. He, um – he has a guest room, which I guess is already more or less my room, and he said I can come over whenever I want to. He – when I was four years old, I drew on his wall with permanent markers, but instead of painting over it, he framed the picture. It's still there at his apartment.”

He doesn't really know how to articulate how he really feels about Cor, but Mrs. Cerus prompts him on with a soft smile: ”That must be nice. Do you go over often, then?”

Prompto is silent for a moment. ”Not as often as I should,” he eventually admits, forcing himself to keep on talking. ”But when I do... He's – he's the Immortal, yeah? The apartment's kinda small but he's there. And, and – he lets me be alone, but he's still there and it's. It's safe.”

He has tears in his eyes and he's unable to look at Mrs. Cerus. She moves the tissue box to the bed and he grabs one, dabbing at his watery eyes. ”Sounds like you have a good relationship with Marshal Leonis,” she says. Prompto thinks she might be smiling, but he still can't face her properly. ”What about Lord Amicitia? What do you think about him?”

The question is more difficult than the first one, because Clarus doesn't have shoe boxes full of old photographs and fingerpainted pictures from a decade ago. Prompto thinks about Cor's guest room and how it makes him feel safe because no-one will ever bother him there, and then he thinks about the Amicitia manor and all the people who _will_ bother him if he shows up.

”They won't leave me alone,” he murmurs. ”Clarus and Gladio, I mean, and Iris too I guess. But they'll – Cor lets me just be, and it's safe, but Clarus makes me – he makes me not want to be alone anymore. If that makes sense.”

He's ashamed and unsure if there is any sense to what he's saying and feeling, but Mrs. Cerus looks up at him and smiles just a bit. ”It does,” she says, then sighs. ”I don't know you much at all, but I have known hundreds of other children just like you. You've spent too many of your growing years learning to distrust people, and now it's time you start unlearning all of that. If you want to live free, you need to learn to be vulnerable. You're not the only trustworthy person in your life.”

Prompto can't speak. He's choking on unshed tears, once again unable to look at something other than his lap and the shaking fingers nervously twisting into a thin hospital blanket. A warm hand settles over his knee and Prompto forces himself to face Mrs. Cerus.

”The current plan is to make Lord Amicitia your temporary guardian until it's time to make a more permanent decision, and then we'll choose between him and Marshal Leonis. Are you okay with this?”

Prompto nods. Mrs. Cerus leaves him a small card and walks out. A moment later Clarus returns to his side, sitting down but getting back up right away. He lets Prompto cry against his chest like it's the most normal thing in the world.


	5. Chapter 5

At half past seven in the morning, Ignis flicks on the lights in Noctis' bedroom and sits down on the edge of the plush bed. ”Highness, it's time to get up,” he says firmly, shaking the blanket-covered form until he hears the groan.

”Too early,” Noctis whines. On any other day, Ignis would let him moan and gripe as long as he wanted, but not today.

”We need to talk about Prompto,” he says. The reaction is immediate: Noctis rolls over and looks at him with bleary eyes, blinking away sleep while bright lights shine down on him. Ignis sees him worry and places a hand on a tense chest.

”What's wrong?” Noctis whispers. ”What's–”

”He's at the hospital with Clarus,” Ignis cuts in. Noctis tries to get up but he pushes the teen back down. ”Please let me finish. Last night, Prompto's father assaulted him. His injuries were not light, but he is recovering well and the hospital staff will likely let him leave around lunch time.”

”I want to go see him,” Noctis says. He looks horrified, but also angry; the face of a loving friend who blames himself and the world. ”Dammit, Specs, why didn't you wake me up earlier?”

Ignis sighs; he had anticipated this. Clarus called him just after five in the morning, and though his pragmatic side tried to reason against rushing to the hospital, he had still felt like he was betraying Prompto by staying home. Now, he watches Noctis struggle with the exact same thoughts.

”We're not going to the hospital, Noctis,” he says slowly, then tries not to flinch at the angry snarl that tears from Noctis' throat. ”He's not alone; Clarus has been with him all night long. Right now, what he needs the most is rest and he won't get any of that if we barge in to bother him.”

Noctis slaps at his hand and Ignis pulls back, letting the teen sit up against the headboard. His hair is messy from sleep but instead of his usual morning haze, his expression is a mixture of disbelief and anger. ”He's my best friend!” he cries out. ”I need to be there for him!”

”And you _will_ be,” Ignis reassures him. ”As soon as he has rested and is ready to see us, we will all be visiting him.”

Noctis is far from happy with him, but Ignis is used to being the bad guy and ignores the daggers shot in his direction. A short staring contest later Noctis relents, huffing and relaxing against the headboard. He reaches up to mess with his bangs but his eyes don't leave Ignis'. ”There's something else you're still not telling me,” he says.

”That is correct,” Ignis agrees, nodding. He watches Noctis carefully as he speaks. ”John Argentum killed himself last night.”

At first, Noctis' eyes widen in shock as the words register in his mind; Ignis imagines his expression over the same news must have been near identical. Then, a moment later, Noctis' face darkens. ” _Good_ ,” he spits out. Ignis sighs.

”While we all share your sentiment, it would be best to leave such thoughts behind when you see Prompto again, Highness,” he says calmly. ”Though it is clear there was little love shared between Prompto and his father, we still must not forget that they were indeed a father and a son and that there was once a time when they were family to each other.”

Noctis says nothing, but his eyes soften and turn down. Soon he sighs and grasps his phone. ”So what's my day gonna be like?” he asks, pulling up the messaging app.

”The original schedule still stands up till lunch,” Ignis explains. ”I've already cancelled or moved all the appointments I was able to, which means the rest of your morning is free. From nine till noon you're supposed to attend the children's winter playground event. After that, I still recommend you lunch with your father as planned, but the rest of your day is free.”

”Yeah.” Noctis doesn't look happy, but he's deferential in a way Ignis has grown to loathe; his entire life has been written for him, and all he can do is to acquiesce. The children's event is an annual one, planned months in advance, and Ignis knows Noctis has been looking forward to playing with children of all walks of life, having fun without having to worry about appearances. Today's event is likely already soured but Ignis knows Noctis will pull through. He has to.

* * *

Noctis left to Gladio's care for the day, Ignis hops into his car and drives out to Prompto's house. There's a police car waiting outside, some last officers still milling about, but they let him past the yellow tape after he flashes his ID to them. As curious neighbors peek through their curtains, Ignis explains to the officers he's here to pack some of Prompto's belongings for him, and a young woman in a blue uniform leads him indoors.

The inside of the house is a mess. There are bloody footprints in the entrance, the exact size and shape of Prompto's feet, and when Ignis glances at the closets he can see a familiar winter coat bunched next to a larger, heavier one. The kitchen, when he strolls past it, is full of beer cans and dirty dishes, one chair fallen down on the floor. The living room is where John Argentum took his life.

”I understand there was a letter,” Ignis says as he stares at the blood and brain matter coagulating against a bookshelf.

”Yes, sir,” the officer replies. ”It has been taken in as evidence, but it can be released to Mr. Argentum after the investigation is over. He can also come to the station to have a look.”

She tells Ignis what Ignis already expected to hear. He nods quietly and turns away from the scene, heading for the stairs instead. Here, too, smears of blood line the steps and he has to be careful to not step on them, though he presumes everything has already been photographed and documented. Upstairs, there are three doors. Ignis follows the blood to Prompto's room. The sight of a shining new bolt on the door makes him nauseous.

The room is easily the most lived place in the house, Ignis thinks as he steps in. There are photographs and little trinkets everywhere, an entire herd of chocobo plushies and collectibles on every available surface, some of them knocked down and spilling onto the floor. The bed is crooked, like something heavy had slammed against it, and there are several pools of blood on the floor.

Ignis stares at the mess, wonders what exactly he's meant to take with him. Clothes, certainly, and the largest chocobo plushie he recognizes from dozens of photos sent to their group chat. The camera, too, but there's camera equipment everywhere and Ignis doesn't know anything about photography, doesn't know what's important enough to pack and what's safe to leave behind.

He doesn't want to let Prompto inside this house ever again.

”Is there something here that I am not allowed to take with me?” Ignis asks. The officer hesitates, then shakes her head no. Ignis makes a few calls and walks back outside, to wait in the snow instead of the deafening silence of the house. While waiting, he sends Jared a text and asks him to make sure the Amicitia manor kitchen is stocked with the ingredients needed to make Prompto's favorite green curry. He'll add extra vegetables and extra heat. The others can suffer.


	6. Chapter 6

When Clarus walks Prompto into the Amicitia manor, Ignis is there but the others aren't, or at least Prompto can't see them. They enter the room and Ignis immediately closes his book, stands up and just looks at him, head cocked and fingers twitching. Prompto feels his lips wobble and bites down, just a little.

”I asked Ignis to pick up some of your things,” Clarus says softly and Prompto nods. They talked about this already.

Clarus lets go of his shoulder and Ignis still looks like he's waiting for permission, so Prompto steps closer and closer, until Ignis opens his arms and embraces him. He's so tall that Prompto's face squishes against his chest, the smooth fabric of his shirt heavenly against oversensitive skin. Prompto thinks it's a good hug, one that he'd like to last forever, but he's tired and his head hurts and there's still blood soaked into his hair and he can't wait to be rid of it.

It's a little known fact Ignis can read minds. ”Jared and I set up a room for you,” he murmurs. Prompto nods, then pulls back when a button digs into his cheek. ”Would you like to see it?”

Words won't come to Prompto so he nods his head once more and steps away from Ignis. Clarus envelopes him in a hug, then, one that crushes his soul but not his aching bones, and Prompto thinks he might cry. He lets Ignis guide him upstairs, to the direction of Gladio and Iris' rooms but not the guest room he's stayed in in the past, and the implications make his heartbeat rocket.

The room is at the end of the hallway, empty rooms between his and Gladio's and Iris', and when Ignis opens the door, Prompto sees that they're in one of the corner rooms, with windows into two different directions and a small balcony. The air smells like fresh laundry and pine soap, and his Rosie sits on the bed.

”I wasn't entirely sure of what to pack for you,” Ignis says, ”and I'm afraid I may have gone a little overboard. I have unpacked your clothes and a few chose items, but the rest of your belongings are in boxes in the next room.”

Prompto nods and sits on the bed, picks up Rosie and holds her close. There's a full-lenght mirror across the room and he flinches. ”Can you cover that up?” he asks quietly. It takes Ignis a moment to understand what he's talking about, but he pulls a sheet from a closet and hangs it over the mirror. He doesn't ask anything.

Whenever Prompto moves his head, blood-crusted hairs pull and pinch and drag against his skin. ”Can I take a shower?”

”A bath might be a better idea,” Ignis muses, eyeing him. ”You don't have any open wounds anymore, do you?”

Prompto shakes his head. The potions took care of everything.

”That's wonderful.” Ignis comes to kneel at Prompto's feet and some hysterical part of his brain reminds him that he's not Noctis and that Ignis should probably be doing something more important than this. ”Ah, please don't look like that, sweetheart. Now, I'm so terribly sorry to say this, but because of your concussion and how little you've slept today, we're a little concerned about you falling asleep in the bath. Would you be willing to keep the door open while I stay here to make sure nothing happens?”

”That's fine,” Prompto murmurs. He doesn't want to be alone.

”Thank you. I'll go draw your bath; in the meanwhile, I'd like you to finish drinking this.”

Ignis hands him a pouch full of liquid fruit, just like the ones Cor keeps in his car. Prompto cracks open the drinking cap and watches as Ignis disappears into the ensuite, catches glimpses of white tile and marble and golden accents.

He's almost done with the fruit puré when Ignis returns, taking one look at Prompto before pulling out some clean clothes from a dresser. Socks and underwear, old sweats, and a black hoodie they both know is actually Noct's. Prompto never returned it after the kidnapping attempt. It's his now.

The bathroom is warm and full of lavender-scented steam when he finally walks in. There are bubbles in the bath and bottles of soap lined up, ready for use. Prompto pulls the door almost shut and strips down, leaving the hospital clothes on top of the toilet. He doesn't want to ever see them again.

* * *

After the bath, he lays down in bed. Ignis feeds him a sandwich and makes him drink a glass of cold water, then tucks him under the covers once more. The bed is large enough that there's space for Ignis to sit at the head, back against the wall and feet tangling over the edge. Prompto rests his head against Ignis' leg and closes his eyes, but despite the fingers treading through his damp hair, he can't sleep.

”Is something in your mind, sweetheart?” Ignis asks.

Prompto hesitates, doesn't speak until long fingers pat his cheek encouragingly. ”Where are Noct and Gladio?”

”They're waiting downstairs with Clarus and Cor,” Ignis explains. ”Would you like to see them?”

”Yeah...” Prompto breathes out. ”I wanna – I want them here.”

He hears Ignis tap a message into his phone and a moment later, there's a knock at the door. Noctis and Gladio come in, both of them looking so sad and concerned that Prompto can't bear looking at them, so he flaps his arms in a way he hopes is understandable.

”Hey there, Prom,” Noctis murmurs. He crawls into the bed and settles down next to Prompto, first touches tentative but soon surer, firmer. He wraps around Prompto like an octopus, warm and soft and secure. Prompto snuggles closer until his face is in the crook of Noctis' neck, and then Gladio sits down by their feet and lays a hand on Prompto's ankle. It's large and calloused, hot where it sneaks under his pant leg.

”I love you so much, Prom, you know that, right?” Noctis whispers into his hair and Prompto wonders if it's just him who can still smell the rust.

But love – he could get behind that. Prompto loves Noctis with all his heart and is beyond overjoyed to hear he's loved in return, even if he can't remember how to accept that love. He thinks he can learn, though, if he tries his best, so he's going to try. Mrs. Cerus' words ring in his ears and he squeezes his fingers into Noct's hoodie and lets himself drift to dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the last fic in this series! The next piece is finished and I'll keep on updating every other day as I did with this one. Many thanks to everyone who has commented and kudoed, the amount of comments I receive for each update has been skyrocketing since I started posting this series, and my mind is blown away every time I see how much attention it's getting! <3


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